Ginny Had Been Killed by the Basilisk
by SaltySloth
Summary: There's dark, and there's this.
Ginny had been killed by the basilisk.

The room is dark. It has been dark for quite some time, yet the torches remain unlit. So the room's contents remain shrouded in shadow- a fact most would find fortunate, given the nature of said contents. The room's occupant finds it ideal for different reasons.

The deepest shadow is hunched over a table. From that direction comes the sound of scratching quill on parchment. Occasionally, a much more chilling noise echoes its way through the chamber; a loud crack, or the gentle sound of something sharp slipping into something soft. Then more scratching. Mumbles drift by throughout, a sound perhaps scratchier than the quill. The words are too quiet to understand, yet any who could hear would be left shivering with profound unease. There are some things we understand without knowing- and some that we fear without understanding.

A smell hangs over the room. It is a stench of death, but not the natural scent of decay. There is something distinctly off about the smell; there is the tang of blood, yes, and that peculiar smell (or lack thereof) which identifies the absence of life anywhere nearby, but that's not all. There is something clinical mixed in, detached and sterile, but that is not the main point of strangeness either. Those with a more discerning nose may identify the various blend of smells real and unreal as those of miscellaneous magicks and potions, but somehow even this pales in comparison to that underlying stench which looms over the others. It is something ill-defined, yet so unnatural as to cause maggots to squirm with distaste and snakes to keep their tongues in their mouths. One thing is clear; the source of this smell is the same as that of the whispers, that absence of light in an unlit room.

A heavy wooden door squeaks open, causing the shadow to pause in its macabre work. Slowly, a wizened old woman limps through, her feet dragging loudly on the cold stones beneath her. She leans on a gnarled staff, her dirty white robe not quite matching her dirty gray hair. In her other hand is a sword, wet with blood.

"Hermione Granger."

The name is spoken with contempt, in a voice like dry paper rubbing against itself. Perhaps moreso than contempt, it is spoken with impatience, as though the visitor were a child interrupting her father's work.

"Harry," comes the tired reply.

"How did you get in?" the shadow hisses. "We're not to be disturbed. We've told you this."

The witch smiles mirthlessly. "The traps were easy. Child's play. You never were much for studying the practical aspects of magic. Your pet snake gave me some trouble." She holds up the bloody sword, her arm quivering slightly. "But it won't be troubling anyone anymore."

The shadow stops. "The Sword of... no matter. Hedwig's dead?" It shifts slightly; the noise of it is somewhere between snakes slithering over each other and a bundle of sticks rubbing together. "We're sorry to hear that."

The witch frowns, but only slightly, as one might at an expected disappointment. "Harry, Hedwig's been dead. She's been dead for decades."

"Yes, yes, we know. The name is symbolic, it's... it doesn't matter. Leave. We're in the middle of something, something important. We're so close, Hermione. So close." For a moment, the voice approaches something human, something of what it used to be. It's enough to make the witch's heart ache. But these scars are too old to be reopened again. "Soon, everything will be right again."

"No, it won't, Harry." The witch speaks with an underlying sigh. She's had this conversation before. "You've never been close, and you never will be. All this death, your soul shattered, and for what? Nothing."

Something like a head cocks on the shadow. "Is it the death that bothers you? Do you not understand? The death doesn't matter. If we succeed, it doesn't matter. And we will succeed."

Frustration edges its way into the witch's voice. "No. What you've done... the evil you've wrought... it's permanent. You can't bring them back, Harry. How many times do I have to tell you? You can't bring the dead back to life. It's not possible."

"On the contrary," the shadow replies. "we've almost done it." It turns back to its table, and the sound of something squishing curdles the witch's stomach. "We realize now that recreating the digestive system is actually the first step; once we get it animated, we can funnel the necessary potions into it, and it can start regrowing its own flesh. More importantly, we've found an incredibly interesting manner of tapping into the pensieve. We just put our memory of the... unliving, into the basin..." The shadow touches a wand to its head, pulling out a sickly black strand, like melted tar, and placing it in a pool of muddy-looking water. "... and then use a spell to link the image to the growing body, making a sort of human blueprint. The body grows to fill the blueprint, and the process is almost entirely automatic. Incredible, isn't it? Look, it's already finished one of his legs." The witch, of course, can see nothing of the body, for which she is grateful.

"That's not all there is to a human being, Harry."

"Oh, we know. And believe us, the brain is proving to be tricky. We think the pensieve is the solution. If we can recall what their minds were like- just the basics, you understand, the fundamental parts of their emotions and thoughts- we think the rest should be able to fill itself in. They may wind up with slightly different likes and dislikes, but those change naturally anyway, right? Yes, we believe the pensieve blueprint is the way to go. Perhaps if we found other living people who knew them well..." Slowly, the shadow's rant devolves back into the mumbling which had filled the chamber prior to the witch's arrival. It seems to have forgotten her entirely. The witch hangs her head, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. The relative silence grows, the room returning to its original state, filling with the sounds and smells of the shadow's foul craft.

Quietly, the witch speaks again. "Enough, Harry. Ginny's dead. She's not coming back."

"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK HER NAME, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD." The shadow rears up inches from the witch's face, almost seeming to surround her entirely. "WE WILL BRING HER BACK. WE WILL PULL HER FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL IF WE HAVE TO. HER, AND EVERYONE ELSE WHO DIED. WE SWEAR IT." Just as quickly, it crossed the room again, back to the table. "Leave, witch. We will not tell you again. Leave, now."

The witch had not moved during the shadow's outburst, a sad expression now fixed on her face. "There was a time when I thought I might have loved you, Harry," she says, her voice low. "It wasn't love I felt then, but it was something. Maybe something more important." The shadow does not pause, or look back. "Somehow, even after everything you've done, I thought I owed you one more chance. But it's too late. Far, far too late."

The shadow turns slightly. A sound something like a cackle races around the chamber, sickening the very stones on which it was built. "Do you mean to kill us, Hermione? That sword won't be enough. You know that."

"No. No, it won't." The witch shifts, pulling a bag out of her cloak. "Pebbles, Harry? Is that the value you give the pieces of your soul, now? Pebbles?"

The shadow turns at that, slowly, deliberately. "How did you-"

"How many people died for these, Harry?" The witch's voice overrides that of the shadow, banishing it as a torch does the dark. "16 pebbles, Harry. How much of your soul is left? How much of you is in there?"

"You can't possibly have found-"

"Have you forgotten who I am, Potter?" Hermione smiles, and a glint of real pride shows in her eyes. "I'm the smartest witch who's ever lived."

Before the shadow can twitch, the Sword of Gryffindor stabs through the sack of stones. Whether through some magical trick, or simply the sword's hunger for justice, the blade shatters every rock in the bag; pitiful screams fill the air as bits of Harry Potter's soul escape, dissipating into nothingness almost immediately. The shadow watches wordlessly.

"Do you think this means anything?" it whispers, once the screams are gone. "We'll only make more. You've set us back, nothing else. But we'll take all the time we need." It rasps deep, angry breaths. "You have, however, proven that you won't stop interfering. We wanted to leave you, at least, but clearly that won't do." The cackle rises again, dead leaves on dead skin. "Don't worry. We'll bring you back when we've finished. Just like everyone else."

"Even with the horcruxes gone, you're still so... inhuman." The witch sighs. "What have you done to yourself?"

With that, the shadow strikes.

Fire is the first salvo, on both sides. Once, the flames would have been more nuanced- blue and red lashing out against red and green, the colors mingling in a display whose beauty was matched only by its ferocity. Now, there is only red and only green, and the tongues of flames feel scripted, if no less dangerous for it. But heat is the burden of a man, not a shadow; for the witch, this is not a winning strategy. Fortunately, strategy is something she's rather good at.

Sweating, covered in light burns, the witch backs into a corner of the room. The shadow pursues relentlessly, chasing weakness like a snake chases a mouse. When her back hits the wall, it closes in for the kill.

" _Bombarda maxima_!"

The spell goes far wide. Too far. Suspicious, the shadow turns- to see the ceiling coming down on its table, ready to crush notes and test subject alike. With a snarl, the shadow raises its wand and catches the debris above the table. Turning back, it sees the Sword of Gryffindor, point inches from its eyes. The witch gives a triumphant cry as she stabs forward.

Suddenly, she's flung bodily into a wall, sinking down to the floor with a shudder.

"You dare to underestimate me? That was pitiful. Child's play. Was that truly the best the smartest witch who's ever lived had to offer?" The shadow moves steadily towards her, in no hurry now. "Pathetic."

Slowly the witch rises to her feet, panting, leaning on the wall for support. She raises the sword to something resembling a ready position. "You think that hurt? Hah. I took worse from the Deatheaters."

"Is it pain you want? Fine. We can give you pain.

" _Crucio_."

The witch's eyes bulge. She spasms, arms flinging the sword into the darkness, before collapsing in a heap on the ground. After a short while, the shadow pulls its wand away. The witch's screams echo through the room for a few moments longer.

"You see? We can give you pain."

Struggling, the witch raises her head off the ground. "You... child. Do you think the rest of us... didn't miss Ginny? It hurt... all of us. But we... moved on. We did what we had to do. You... you did all this... for what? Guilt? Some... sick sense of justice?" She spits on the ground. "Pathetic."

The shadow pulls the witch by her hair, holding her upright in front of itself. It puts its face right up to hers.

"It's our fault she died. It's our fault all of them died. You never understood. We will solve everything, fix everything." The shadow drops her back against the wall, turning away. "We'll show you. How close we are." It flicks its wand at the long-unlit torches. "One need only remember to turn on the light," it mumbles.

The body on the table is fully formed, now. Its chest slowly rises and falls, breathing rhythmically, but its eyes stare upward at nothing. His eyes.

Ron's eyes.

"Merlin's beard." Hermione breathes, rage and fear and sadness fighting for control of her voice. In the end, exhaustion wins. "What have you done?"

"You see?" An almost child-like excitement has entered its inhuman voice. "All we need is the mind, and-"

"That's not Ron, Harry." Tears run down the witch's face. "It has no soul. Ron is dead, and his soul is long gone. Please, feel remorse. It's your one chance. It's all you've got left."

The shadow stares at her. "I'll feel remorse when I'm dead, Granger. And I won't die until I've made things right." It moves towards her. "I will usurp Death itself if I have to." It raises its wand. "I already have.

"This attempt on my life was pitiful. I'll see you when I've finished."

Hermione looks back at it, tears drying. She gives it a half-smile. "You never were all that smart."

At that moment, the sword's blade bursts through the shadow's chest. It falls to its knees, grasping at it. "How..."

From behind it, a cloak drops off a thin, elderly frame. "Bloody hell, you have to die."

"Neville... ?"

"You can't have thought I was dumb enough to come alone," breathes the witch.

The shade melts off the shadow's frame, shying away from the sword, crawling like a great swarm of black insects.

"Sto-... this can't... I was so close! I could- could still..." Slowly, a face is revealed- hairless and gray, but undeniably the face of the Boy Who Lived. In spite of everything, it hardly looked like he'd aged a day. "What happened... what I've done... I need to fix it! What I've done..."

Tears stream down the broken man's face, mingling with his inky blood on the floor. With some effort, Neville helps

Hermione to her feet, half-carrying her as she limps over to Harry's dying body, kneeling down next to him. She says nothing, only looks into his eyes.

"I- I wish," he stutters, eyes wide with something like panic. "I wish..."

"I know," Hermione replies.

He turns to her, then. His eyes are as clear as when he was a boy. They were filled with wonder and hope, then; now, there's something comparably heart-wrenchingly childish, but not quite so bright or noble. He looks at her, tears still welled up in his eyes, ready to fall.

"I'm sorry," he says. They are the last words he will ever speak.

"I know," Hermione whispers. The last he will ever hear.

So the Boy Who Lived lived no more.


End file.
